Oil on canvas, 16”x20”

“What do you think of this little guy?”

I texted my husband a photo of a black Chihuahua just listed at the Arizona Humane Society. His name was Bobby.

“And he’s on sale,” I added.

Ever since we adopted Betty Boops eight months before, I knew she would eventually need another dog her age. She was the baby in a geriatric dog ward…two older dogs were still kicking, while their sibling Popeye (the infamous “time-out dog”) had just passed away. I didn’t really want another dog. Honestly. My dog obsession has faded over the years. But Betty Boops needed a friend who wasn’t going to croak in a couple of years.

So, for months, I casually “just looked” at puppies on the Humane Society’s site, sending photos to my husband with disclaimers like, “No pressure.” (Of course, I had every intention of breaking him down this way.) After about eight months (and the fact that Bobby was “half off”), my persistence paid off.

“Maybe you should go look at him,” he texted.

My heart stopped. We both knew what that meant. I don’t just “go look.” He knows this better than anyone. I threw down my paintbrush and ran out the door.

Minutes later, I was standing in front of Bobby’s cage, trying to pet him while dogs barked and howled around us. Before I knew it, I was driving away with a squirmy eight-month-old Chihuahua crawling all over me.

“He barks a lot, especially at people,” the adoption worker warned. “His last owner brought him back because of that. She already had too many dogs.”

“Suspicious,” I thought. “What else did you do, Bobby? And why were you half off?”

When we got home, he introduced himself by taking a shit in the dog bed, then humping my blind old dog Ruby, who had no idea what was happening. Finally, he met Betty Boops.

“Baby, meet your new brother.”

She wanted nothing to do with him. She barked, growled, snapped, and ran. He chased her gleefully like it was the best game of his life. I had to hold her nonstop while “Bobby” (soon to be renamed Jackie) relentlessly tried to get to her.

“This isn’t going to work,” I told my husband the next day. “I have to take him back.” And I absolutely meant it.

“No, you can’t. Someone already gave him up once. How do you think he’d feel if you did it too? Just give it a few more days. Baby will come around.”

Why was Michael, the one who didn’t even want another dog, defending Bobby/Jackie? Truth be told, even though he’s a crazy Gemini chef, he has the softer heart between the two of us.

So I gave it a couple more days.

Eight years later, I carry Jackie down the stairs every morning, pressing him to my chest, showering him with kisses, whispering:

“You handsome devil. How’d you get so handsome? You’re my Big Boy. I love you so much.”

Was I really going to take this guy back?

(“Yes you were,” my husband is saying in his head as he reads this. “And I saved him.”)

Best half-off sale I ever stumbled into.